The Game
by WhiteHorse-x
Summary: A oneshot I wrote a while back whilst brain-storming ideas for a new AH story. Edward is an assasin, and Bella his target. Unfortunately, I never got passed the brain-storming stage, so this is all there is. It's not brilliant, but it's here.


Okay, so here's the deal. A while back I was brainstorming ideas for a new story, writing snippets and random paragraphs without having a clue where they tied in or where they would lead. One of my favourite ideas that never came to fruition was an AH story staring Edward as a top assasin, and Bella as his next target. What with one thing and another, I never actually wrote anything, but the idea stuck with me, and a year or two ago I jotted down this oneshot. It's not good, with an under-developed writing style and only vague thought put into the plot that lead to it, but I figured it's better on here than rotting away in my files. Enjoy.

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**The Game**

**A man lies upon a fetid mattress, surrounded by scattered debris. He stirs, then, startled, he sits bolt upright in his bed, the remnants of a fitful dream trickling away; water in cupped hands. His back is drenched in cold sweat, and he fights to regain control of his rapid breathing. Sitting back, he glances fitfully around the dismal apartment. The last echoes of the dream recede, leaving him alone with his thoughts. The job had never left him with many friends. As he stares unseeing at the cracked walls, a memory, trapped in his mind, surfaces; a repetitive movie, playing itself back over again and again behind his eyes. Heaving a sigh, he bows his head as his thoughts are submersed, and the memory takes over…**

A dark figure lay just off the side of the track, half concealed in the shadow of an enormous oak tree. The wind blew the ash of his cigarette away and over the moors. It was dark, so dark it was as if the raging wind had blown away all the light, but for the stars. They peeped out from behind the clouds, like a million watchful eyes. He couldn't hide from them. He sat up, their pale, cold light shining on his face. Despite his deadly purpose, he looked calm and, in a way, almost content. His dishevelled, bronze-coloured hair stuck up in various directions, casting irregular shadows across his features, obscuring his face should anyone attempt to catch a glimpse. But there was no one to see, not a living soul for miles around, except for the animals of the night. To them he was not important. A passing stranger, trespassing on their territory; they waited patiently for him to move on. He tensed, listening to the sound of the wind, but only the nightly murmurs of the forest reached his ears. Looking up, he sighed, and once again adjusted the rifle to point at the house.

It was an old house, neglected for many years, its plaster crumbling away, the wooden beams of support rotting into pieces, so that the entire building swayed and creaked, trembling in the relentless gale. The dark windows seemed to stare down the hill upon which the house stood alone, watching for signs of life and movement. A solitary, dead tree stood crookedly in the grounds, surrounded by long, wild grass. A few errant bats glided out of the cracks in the shattered roof tiles as night fell, off to the hunt of the dark. Ragged moonlight spilled out from behind a wisp of passing cloud, illuminating the broken roof, glancing off fragments of slate and gaping holes. The musky smell of damp wood hit him even where he sat, the stench of an abandoned building, falling into ruin. Who would make a home in such a wreck of a house, its walls falling to pieces, stranded out on a deserted moor? It was truly the house of a horror story, frightful and derelict. A house of secrets and lies, and lives long passed. But someone did live there, hiding from the outside world. That someone was driving up the road at this very minute, their headlights illuminating the muddy track before them, returning to their home amongst the rubble and debris of the deserted building.

He looked up as the car pulled into the drive. As the noise of the engine gradually diminished into the night, the driver paused. This worried him. Could she possibly…The car door opened. He lifted the gun, but again she hesitated. Did she know he was there? To his mind there was no possible way she could have found out, but the questions screamed through his mind. Why else would she hesitate? Was it simply apprehension of the dark, cold night that delayed her, or was it a more primal instinct of danger? As she finally stepped out of the car, her footsteps seemed to echo in his mind. He jumped to the worst conclusion, as always: she knew. How did she know? Why did she still come? What kind of person walks knowingly into the face of death, when there is still a choice? He shook his head. Questions were meaningless. Only she knew the answers, and soon her answers would be hidden forever.

She walked slowly. As she staggered up the rock-strewn path, the moon escaped the clouds and shone its light upon her dark hair. She reached the doorstep, turned to face his hiding place, and stood there waiting.

He sighted down the rifle. His finger gripped the trigger. Still, his face was blank, emotionless, as if it was all a game. It had started out that way. Just a pastime, a way to make money, a way to survive. Survival of the fittest; that had always been the rule. But it was more than that now. The game had taken over his life, enfolding him in its suffocating cloak of lies and deceit. He took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.

It would have been better to say "The sound echoed through the woods". But there was no sound. Just the rush of the speeding bullet, the gasp as the life drained out of her and a thud as she hit the ground. It started to rain. Blood seeped out of the wound, soaked her clothes, stained the soil... Her deep chocolate brown eyes were open, staring at the stars in an endless instant.

He packed up his rifle and stamped out his cigarette. Hauling his case over his shoulder, he walked away into the night. It was just a game to him, a game that might never end…

**The playback stops. His mind spinning, he goes to wash his face in the cracked sink, and looking up he glances in the mirror. They are there, staring out at him. Trapped. The ones who see the light no more. But they were always there. He had learnt to ignore them. The job has risks, they said. They never said that the price was your sanity…**


End file.
